


Bathtime

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexual Character, Bathing/Washing, Caring, Established Relationship, Fluff, Love, M/M, Rubber Ducks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Concerned that Moran has been overdoing things, Moriarty has Moran take some time out, beginning with taking a nice hot bath with him.</p>
<p>Written for an anon who requested: "Could you write something else Moriarty/Moran to do with asexuality (not about/centered on sex - something else with nonsexual touch maybe)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathtime

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think the Victorians actually had rubber ducks but let's just say Moriarty and Moran are pioneers in this regard.

   Having delivered his report on the status of the various projects they are currently undertaking, Moran sits quietly and waits for Moriarty to say something. He looks down at the desk top, only raising his gaze questioningly when Moriarty, in silence, rises from his chair and moves to stand behind Moran’s chair.

    “I fear that you are working too hard, Sebastian.” Moriarty rests his hands on Moran’s shoulders, feeling the tightness there, the muscles knotted with tension. “It was not necessary for you to do _everything_ in such a short space of time.”

    “I just…” Moran stares straight ahead resolutely. “I just want you to know you can rely on me, sir.”

    “I _know_ that, my dear Moran, I already know.” Moriarty digs his fingers firmly (but not unkindly) into Moran’s shoulders, eliciting a slight gasp from his right hand man as he begins to massage out a little of the stiffness. “I cannot have you burning yourself out. If you are tiring yourself out you will become clumsy.”

    “I’m all right, I just need to get on to-”

    “I am _ordering_ you to do no more today.”

    Moran slumps, ever so slightly, the fight going out of him. Such a direct order from Moriarty trumps everything else. “Right sir.”

    Moriarty pauses with his fingers grasping Moran’s shoulders still, bowing his head to speak in a lower tone into Moran’s ear. “I want you to relax - unwind a little, eat a proper dinner, and get your rest.”

    “Yes Professor.”

    “Perhaps we might start by having a nice hot bath?”

    Moran glances back at him. “ _We_?”

    “I thought I might join you, unless you have any objections? _Just_ for a bath, nothing more.”

    Moran grins. “No sir, no objections.”

 ~

     Moriarty, having a weakness for taking long, hot, relaxing baths, regards the bathroom as a very important room in the house, though Moran has never accorded it the same status. The colonel, though he does care about his personal hygiene, customarily prefers a much more brief wash, considering extra time spent soaking in the tub to be time wasted. This aversion though does tend to dissipate somewhat when presented with the prospect of taking a bath with the professor.

    The bathtub is large enough to accommodate the pair comfortably and now it has been filled with plenty of hot water, with a bar of soap and a sponge set out to one side and clean, fluffy towels on the rail. A small fire in the room keeps it nicely warm and candles lit around the room give off a pleasing warm golden glow, ensuring even the bitter chill of a foggy November evening cannot intrude here.

    “Well?” Moriarty says, regarding his companion as Moran stands there wrapped in a bathrobe to match his own.

    Moran shrugs off his robe without any qualms, being long past the stage where he feels any hesitance or nervousness about being naked before the professor. It is as normal as eating or sleeping to him and no longer does the act of stripping bare even have only sexual connotations for him. He has bathed with Moriarty before; he has lain naked beside him to sleep countless times; on a couple of occasions he would really prefer to forget he has even been nearly entirely naked while the professor meticulously examines him for injuries, in those rare instances where Moran has come off the worse in a fight with someone.

    Moriarty regards Moran in that oddly dispassionate way of his, appraising his lean form as Moran stands there in the soft candlelight. “As I suspected, you have lost weight,” he remarks. “Three pounds, at least.”

    Moran snorts. “You can’t tell that just from looking.”

    “Of course I can.” Moriarty catches Moran’s hand and draws him closer, then slides his hands over Moran’s sides, down to his hips, then up to skate over his ribcage. “Your ribs are a touch more visible; your hipbones just a tad more prominent. I will allow that the inconstancy of candlelight may exaggerate the effect a little, but it is indisputable that you have lost some weight at least.”

    Moran still looks far from convinced by this.

    “You must remember to eat properly, pet,” Moriarty chides.

     Moran rolls his eyes slightly. “Yes, _master_.” He grins.

    Moriarty smiles and shifts his hand to Moran’s cheek, caressing it briefly. “You scoff, but you would be the first to complain if I did not show an interest in your wellbeing.”

    “Aye, I s’pose so.”

    “You are extremely valuable to me, Moran; I will have you take good care of yourself.”

    Moriarty removes his own robe, hanging it up beside Moran’s. With him too there is no hesitancy about revealing himself, even though with his increasing age and fondness for sweet things he no longer has the leaner, more muscular body of his youth. Of course the look that Moran gives to him is still somewhat more openly admiring than the look Moriarty gave to Moran, but then even now somehow this scene does not seem overtly sexual, quite the opposite. After all, Moriarty has often remained partly or even fully clothed during their sexual games, not because of prudery or nervousness but because it accentuates and affirms the fact that he dominates Moran completely. This then is something else, an act of intimacy, stripping away clothing, stripping away all illusion and pretence, and a comparatively rare opportunity also for Moran to simply look at the professor’s naked body.

    Moriarty cannot quite keep from smiling at Moran’s admiration. Though he considers it important to always be properly attired and appear clean and smart and there is certainly a strong vein of narcissism in his personality, his looks are of far less concern to him than his brainpower. That does not however make him immune to Moran’s regard for him, a regard which encompasses his aesthetic appeal as well as far deeper factors. Moran does not care if the professor is a little softer around the edges now, if he has the beginnings of a pot belly, if his hair has more grey in it than ever. Moran still is attracted to Moriarty aesthetically, sensually and of course sexually, as well as there being a romantic aspect towards his desire also.

    Moran watches the professor intently still, his blue eyes looking very dark, though their darkness is an effect brought about by the candlelight and not on this occasion the dilation of the pupils caused by sexual arousal. Indeed the professor’s usually pale eyes look equally dark in this light.

    “What are you thinking, Moran?” Moriarty asks softly, letting his hands rest lightly against Moran’s hips.

    “How beautiful you are.” Moran grins up at him again, bold as ever, knowing that he will not be chastised for saying this, words which might seem to be too soppy, too sentimental, simply too absurd, were anyone else to utter them to Moriarty. “Professor…”

    “Hush.” Moriarty draws him closer briefly, to give Moran a quick peck on the lips, before directing him towards the tub. “Get in the bath.” He cannot resist giving Moran’s bottom a pat as his companion climbs into the bathtub, nor when Moran glances back at him, giggling, can he keep from laughing himself even as he tries to feign complete innocence.

    “It’s all right, Professor, I know even you can’t keep your hands off me.” Moran smirks as he settles himself in the water, legs splayed, head resting against the enamel, one hand still trailing over the side while the other rests upon his abdomen. “Bloody irresistible, that’s me.” He looks cocky, completely brazen, reclining like that, making no attempt at all to conceal anything.

    “Always so modest,” Moriarty remarks wryly, raising his eyebrows at Moran.

    “Don’t see why I need to be modest, not when I’m so bloody handsome.”

    “Indeed you _are_ very aesthetically appealing, but I cannot have you turn into some conceited coxcomb.” Moriarty delays for a moment his own entrance into the water, as he opens a cupboard where spare bars of soap and the like are kept and removes one particular item, which he drops into the bath. It plops into the water between Moran’s legs, sinks for an instant, then bobs back up to the surface.

    Moran stares at the object and upon recognising it promptly bursts out laughing. “Playing with toys in the bath, Professor? Whatever next?”

    “I will remind you that you were the one who purchased it.” Moriarty steps carefully into the water, lowering himself down so that he sits facing Moran, his legs between Moran’s.

    Moran pushes the little rubber duck over to him. “Well…” He shrugs. “You like birds.”

    “ _Pigeons_.”

    “And I was really, _incredibly_ drunk at the time.”

    “Yes,” Moriarty concurs, “that much was obvious.” He bats the rubber duck back to Moran, splashing a few droplets of water up over Moran’s chest. “Perhaps it signifies that at heart you remain a child.”

    Moran slaps the duck back to Moriarty. “I’m all man, Professor.”

    “I am not certain of this. At times I think you are more immature than some of my students.” Moriarty pushes the duck back across the surface of the water with one finger.

    “Oh?” Moran takes hold of the duck and toys with it a moment, regarding Moriarty questioningly.

    “They all pay more attention than you do in my lectures.”

    “I pay attention.” Moran chuckles. “Just not necessarily to what you’re saying.”

    “Yes, I have noticed you staring at my _posterior_. You are hardly subtle, Moran.”

    “You like it.” Moran still holds Moriarty’s gaze, fearlessly, even provocatively, and sits up straighter.

    For a brief instant Moriarty fears that Moran may have misinterpreted his intentions in bringing him in here, that Moran is going to try to kiss him passionately and then request (Moran would still never _demand_ ) sex from him, which is not what he wants at present.

    But Moran only gives him that crooked smile of his before mischievously splashing water onto the professor.

   “Yes, all right,” Moriarty admits, “I do, but if you will insist on sneaking into my lectures at least try not to be so obvious about your reasons for doing so.”

    “I’ll try,” Moran says, “but I ain’t promising.”

    “Then I suppose that will have to do.” Moriarty draws his right leg up, bending his knee, and brushes his foot against Moran’s leg. “Come here,” he says, beckoning to Moran with one hand.

    Moran scoots over to him, careful to avoid slopping the water too much, and sits between Moriarty’s legs, watching his face intently as he tries to discern what Moriarty wants from him now.

    Moriarty picks up the sponge and bar of soap. Dipping both into the water, he lathers up the soap and rubs it onto the sponge before applying this to Moran’s shoulder. He works the sponge in small circles, meticulously cleaning the colonel, down his arms, across his chest. He already knows the map that is Moran’s skin so well, all of its significant features and markings, from its smattering of hair to its freckles to the tattooed crest on his left arm to the numerous scars, both obvious and almost invisible. Moriarty does not linger on any of them in particular now, simply running the soapy sponge all over him, washing him clean. Now is not the time to dwell on Moran’s scars, nor on the memories attached to that regimental crest. He is well aware that much of Moran’s history pains him and causing Moran pain tonight is the very last thing he desires. He turns his attention to washing Moran’s legs then, first the left, then the right.

    “Lie back a moment, my dove,” he instructs and Moran obeys, closing his eyes. The steam rises from the water around him and the heat of the water coupled with Moriarty’s tenderness in bathing him seem to be having a powerful effect on him. His eyes remain closed as Moriarty gently lifts his right foot from the water and wipes it with the sponge.

    “That tickles a bit,” Moran says, his eyes still closed as he wiggles his toes.

    “My apologies.” Moriarty releases Moran’s right foot, setting it back into the water, and shifts to his left foot, washing this as thoroughly and carefully as its partner.

   “No, ‘s’nice.” Moran looks at him from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “I’ll do you in a bit, if you like.” 

    Moriarty considers this for the briefest moment, scanning Moran’s offer for any sign of suggestiveness, but he decides that truly Moran means nothing more than he wishes to reciprocate Moriarty washing him. “I would like that.” He rests his hand on Moran’s knee briefly, giving it an affectionate squeeze before he motions to Moran to sit up. “Turn around, let me wash your back.”

    Moran sits and idly taps at the rubber duck, causing it to repeatedly dip under the water, while Moriarty washes his back. The professor smiles to himself, unable to fully conceal his amusement at the sight of his loyal right hand absentmindedly playing with a child’s toy. He does not comment on it though, not wishing to spoil things, and focuses his attention on soaping and scrubbing the colonel’s skin, letting the soapy water trickle down the ridges of Moran’s spine.

    “Sebastian,” he says, pausing with the sponge resting against Moran’s right shoulder.

    Moran seems intent on holding the rubber duck underwater. “Mm?”

    “You do know that I truly do admire you? I mean… your aesthetic qualities, as well as your other skills.”

    Moran unintentionally releases the duck, causing it to pop up rather violently out of the water. He glances back at Moriarty over his shoulder. “Yes, Professor, I do know.” And he does, even if Moriarty’s attraction to him is not wholly like Moran’s for Moriarty; even if the professor is often reticent about giving voice to his feelings, particularly those that might be seen as overly sentimental, still Moran knows because of that undercurrent that exists between them, where things reside which are unspoken but still clearly communicated.

    “You are… a very interesting specimen.” Moriarty trails his fingers lightly down Moran’s side again.

    Moran laughs. “Maybe you should leave such things to the poets and the like, I don’t think praising my looks is quite your forte.”

    “No, well.” Moriarty clears his throat. “I cannot abide any of that claptrap about comparing a person’s eye colour to a summer’s day or the hue of their skin to a rose. Utter nonsense.”

    “Professor.” Slippery with the soapy water, Moran twists round to face Moriarty once more, and he is grinning broadly. “Let me wash you now.”

    Moriarty hands him the sponge without demurring.

    “You do have lovely eyes, Professor,” Moran remarks nonchalantly as he begins to wash Moriarty’s chest. “Like the colour of a…”

    The professor lifts a somewhat damp eyebrow at him. “Stop it,” he says with playful sternness.

    “Of a summer sky.” Moran smirks as he moves the sponge downward to wash the professor’s abdomen. “Course it’s more like the summer sky when there’s a storm coming, I s’pose, you know maybe when there’s thunder on the way? And it’s about to piss it down with rain shortly, or maybe some hail.” He grins more broadly. “The sort of hail that’s so big it can give you a right wallop if you’re out in it.”

    “Moran.”

    “I’m just saying, sir, that’s the kind of colour your eyes are.”

    “Yes, thank you.”

    “And a very nice colour it is too. Apart from getting a soaking when it pisses it down I never really minded summer storms neither; very impressive, they are, with that sense of danger too when you can feel the air all charged up before the lightning starts. Better them than snowstorms too.”

    Moriarty tries to maintain a serious pout but a laugh soon breaks through. “You are hardly a poet either, Colonel.”

     “Well…” Moran shrugs. “I’m the best bloody marksman in the world _and_ absolutely astonishing in bed so there’s got to be some compromise somewhere.” He holds Moriarty’s gaze while he dips the sponge between the professor’s legs to wash him in that most intimate of places. He quickly moves the sponge along to wash Moriarty’s legs though, silently reassuring him that he is not trying to make this about sex tonight. “You are handsome though, Professor,” he says, dropping his gaze finally.

    Moriarty leans back and rests his head against the side of the tub whilst Moran diligently washes between his toes. “It is kind of you to say so.” He closes his eyes.

    “Course I don’t think I should tell you that too often.” Moran looks up from admiring the professor’s feet (which really are, in his opinion at least, very attractive feet, with all their nicely shaped toes and nails kept clean and neatly trimmed). “I don’t want your head to get too swollen.”

    Moriarty opens one eye again. “I thought big-headedness was more your area.”

    “Oh yeah I forgot, Professor James Moriarty is always so self-effacing.” Moran sniggers and tosses the sodden sponge at Moriarty’s chest where it lands with a squelch. “Silly me.”

    “Silly you.” Moriarty moves the sponge aside before closing his eyes again, showing he has no intention of removing himself from the bath until he is as wrinkled as a prune and the water has gone too cold to endure.

    Well if the professor isn’t about to get out… Moran settles himself back into the water. Reclining there he knocks his knee playfully against Moriarty’s until the professor opens his eyes once again.

    “What?” Moriarty enquires pointedly.

    “Nothin’.” Moran beams at him.

    Moriarty huffs. “Such a child.”

    Moran returns to bobbing the rubber duck up and down in the water between them. “You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he says with a knowing grin.

    “Mmm,” Moriarty says, shutting his eyes again and allowing himself to sink even lower into the lovely warm water, “I don’t suppose that I would.”


End file.
